


Not-Cheating Cheating

by Mandibles



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, Skype, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 01:49:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandibles/pseuds/Mandibles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott's been keeping up with Jackson in London. They've, uh, gotten pretty close.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not-Cheating Cheating

It’s not cheating, Scott reminds himself. It’s not cheating because he doesn’t have anyone to cheat on; he and Allison have been separated for months, but—but they’re friends now, and it’s good. It’s good. And—And it’s also not cheating because the other person is hours away, a sea away, but also just a Skype call away. Also this is definitely, definitely not cheating, because the other person on the line is Jackson Whittemore.

So, not cheating. Really, it isn’t.

… But, god, when Scott’s screen is lit up to Jackson’s lips, his chin, the rest of his face cut off from view, and his chest, naked save for the cord for black earbuds, and, fuck, his cock in hand, and it really does feel like cheating, just a little bit.

"Fuck," Jackson’s murmuring, his voice a tinge distorted in Scott’s headphones. Scott watches, jaw more than a little slack, as Jackson’s hand flies over his cock too quickly for the camera, his hips making aborted thrusts into his fist, and—Jesus fuck—this is hot. This is I-probably-shouldn’t-touch-my-dick-right-now-or-this-is-going-to-end-pretty-quickly hot. “Mm, fuck, McCall."

"You’re thinking about me?" Scott whispers, breath hitched, because that _has_ to be crossing into cheating territory.

Jackson cracks an eye open, stops his hand. For a second, that old familiar Jackson—before he was a wolf, before he was the kanima—shines through in an irritated growl, but then it melds into something foreign, something desperate, something that has Scott grabbing for his dick, a bulge in his jeans.

"Shut up. Take your pants off," Jackson snarls. “Now."

Fuck. No need to tell him twice.

Scott’s chair creaks as he scrambles for the button of his jeans, the zipper. But it’s hard when Jackson looks like that, head cocked and a hand working his dick with slow pulls. There’s no scent here, no sound besides the static in his ears, and what Scott would do to be there now, there in London, in Jackson’s bedroom at 3am, and slurp around the nipple Jackson’s hand reaches for.

He shoves the waistband of his boxers under his balls and his cock pings free, damp and red. He knows he doesn’t have the best webcam, but he hopes Jackson can see it clear enough, can see how fucking wet it is for him, and hopes that maybe some day will come that Jackson’ll see it real close up.

It’s a dumb, embarrassing thought, one that he keeps to himself when he spits into his hand, wraps it ‘round his cock, and looks back at Jackson. But Jackson looks hungry for it, maybe if Scott squints, so maybe he’ll share the thought. One day.

"Come on, McCall," Jackson moans, hand on an upstroke on his cock. “Hurry up."

"What—" Scott swipes his thumb, just under the mushroom head, and stills. “Fuck—What do you want me to do?"

Jackson scowls like he might strangle him, but his voice is breathy when says, “Stroke it."

Scott arranges himself more comfortably, slouches down into his seat, spreads his legs. His cock pops offscreen and Jackson groans.

“ _McCall_ —"

"Relax," Scott says, adjusting webcam just as he gives his cock that first, first, toe-curling stroke. The camera back on his chest, his cock, Scott sighs. “Shit, Jackson, this is—"

"Shut the fuck up," Jackson cuts, then adds, “Fucking stroke it for me." His hand’s pale, his fingers long, as he circles the head of his cock with his fingertips, and not for the first time Scott imagines lapping at those fingers, sucking them into his mouth.

The words and thoughts send sparks up Scott’s spine. His fingers tingle as they drum up his length and he feels fucking _crazy_. “You like my cock," he murmurs. He doesn’t realize the words left him until he sees Jackson’s jaw drop just a bit, his lips forming a perfect o. Instead of doing what Scott expects, though, he does something else entirely.

"Yeah," Jackson whispers, stroking down once, slow, then back up again, even slower. “Yeah, I fucking do."

"Would you—" Scott licks his lips and his hand falls into a familiar, twisting rhythm. “Would you suck it, Jackson? I mean, do you want to?"

Jackson’s Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Yeah," he says lower, something that, even as a werewolf, Scott would have missed if his headphones weren’t on.

"Would you let me fuck your face?"

“ _McCall_ —"

"Would you?"

"Yes," Jackson says like it pains him, his hand a white blur on Scott’s screen. “Fuck yes. I’d fucking choke on it. I’d—I’d fucking drool all over, it, McCall—"

"Shit, Jackson—"

"Wanna—Wanna fucking gag on your dick," Jackson slurs with what must be exhaustion. This is why Scott only calls when it’s ass o’clock on Jackson’s end, because Jackson crawls out of bed and smiles sleepily and whips out his cock without question. Jackson’s mouth hangs open as he works his dick, his tongue peeking out just the slightest bit. “Fucking want it, McCall. Fucking want your dick in my mouth. Want it down my throat. Want it—”

A growl rattles in Scott’s chest, because, fuck, he wants it, too. Scott’s toes wriggle, tense, when he reaches down for his balls, thumbing over the skin of his sac. “You’d—You’d let me come all over your face? Your freckles," he groans when he spots the dark freckles in bloom on Jackson’s shoulders.

Jackson whines in his throat, teeth in his bottom lip. “Come in my mouth."

"Shit—You’d swallow?"

"Yeah—Yeah, I—Yeah—Yeah, fuck—fuck—"

"Wait!" Scott blurts, knowing what’s going to happen, what’s happening, from the way the muscles in Jackson’s stomach tense, from the way his balls draw up. “Wait—Camera—I wanna see—"

Jackson tilts the camera down, to where he pulls on his cock, nestled in wiry hairs.

"No—Your face—"  


Jackson snarls, but then Scott’s screen fills with Jackson’s face, sweaty and freckled and scrunched up tight. It shoves Scott to the precipice, has him toeing the edge, but he’s not—he won’t—not before—

There’s a tight—“Scott!"—and then Jackson’s groaning, _coming_ , and Scott tumbles after him, color exploding behind his eyes, with a grunt or two or three or four. 

And it’s fucking _good_.

Scott lowers from his high gradually, is still in the haze of it when his eyes flutter back open, focus on his screen. Jackson stares, too, his chair shoved back so he fills the screen, head to lap. There’s this moment, oddly comfortable, and Scott says the only thing that makes sense with his hand, his boxers, his shirt, covered in come.

"I love you."

Jackson’s brow knits.

"What?"

… God, he’s dumb.

He panics, racing for something to say to take it back, but his mind goes blank and Jackson looks confused and—

Jackson pops the earbud back into his ear. “What? What’d you say?"

Scott stares, blinks.

"Uh, would you consider this cheating?"

Jackson ends the call.


End file.
